A Mother's Hymn
by Lydia Belle
Summary: He comes to her as she's dying.
1. Chapter 1

_**Third Person's Point of View**_

Ned comes to her as she thinks she's dying, the fever having taken all her strength, leaving her to lie limply on the grand canopy bed Rhaegar had designed specially for her. His babe rests contentedly in her arms.

His tiny patch of dark hair is soft against her skin and she sighs tiredly when she hears the clash of steel down below. She knows when she hears Ned's feet on the stairs that the kingsguard is dead, defending the rightful heir to the throne. The thought sickens her.

She welcomes death with open arms, hoping it will come quick. She is already heart sick at the thought of leaving her son, the tiny prince who knows not what he's about to lose.

"Lya." she hears her name breathed and turns her head, smiling with exhaustion up at her brother.

Ned falls to his knees beside the bed, one hand reaching to touch the babe. His fingers are calloused from wielding a sword and there's blood under his nails.

There's a man standing in the doorway and she beckons him forward, thanking the gods for this one last thing. She's come to thing of Howland as a brother, another to add to her diminishing pack of wolves. She knows she only has herself to blame for that.

"Oh Lya. What have you done?" There is no anger in her brother's voice, only sorrow. Ned has always been so sorrowful. Just like Rhaegar. Perhaps, in another world, they could have been something like friends. But he has only ever liked Robert, it's always been Robert.

"I'm sorry Ned. I loved him." she looks down at the babe, her Jon. He looks nothing like his father, he is all Stark. But she knows, as surely as she knows of her love for the dragon prince, that he will be just like him. It both fills her with joy and terrifies her.

"Does he have a name?" he murmurs.

She nods, her dark hair falling forward, sticking to sweat on the sides of her face. "Jon. I named him Jon. If he was a girl, Rhaegar wanted to call her Visenya." her voice is hoarse, like she hasn't used it in a while. And she supposes she hasn't. "I'm so sorry Ned. For Brandon, for father. I know it was my fault."

Her lower lip begins to tremble, and she knows if she doesn't look from Ned's earnest gaze she'll begin to cry. She's always thought herself the wisest of her siblings, the oldest in some ways. But something about Ned always makes her feel like a young girl again. Like a child who deserves to be scolded.

"No Lya. It was the mad King. You couldn't have known." he says softly, but she knows he blames her. How could he not? She thinks maybe it's because she's so weak, because she's dying. And she is, she thinks. He leans forward, brushing the hair from her face, kissing her on the forehead. "It's going to be okay Lya."

She shakes her head, what remaining strength she has is dissipating. "I'm dying Ned. I owe my life to the gods. They kept me here this long, to see my Jon placed safely in your arms."

Black spots dance in front of her eyes and she lets out a choked sob, stroking a finger down the side of her son's face. "I never wanted this for you." she murmurs. And she means it.

When she married Rhaegar and they made love beneath the heart tree she'd never imagined anything like this would happen. She'd been a stupid foolish girl full of stupid foolish thoughts. She'd thought she could run and be free with her love, be the she-wolf everyone always said she was, without consequence.

She should have known better.

She feels Ned take her boy and her arms drop limp and heavy to her sides. She's empty without him. "Promise me Ned. Promise me."

Her teeth are chattering. She's so cold. So cold. But it's Dorne, it's not supposed to be cold. She knows that.

"Promise me you'll care for him. As if he's your own. Promise me." He takes her hand and she squeezes tight, feeling a resurgence of her old strength just for a moment. She looks up at him, eyes wide and filled with a deeper meaning. "_Promise me._"

And he does.

And she feels the fear she's held in her heart for her son drift away, like dandelion seeds on a summer breeze.

And the world goes dark.

* * *

When she wakes Howland is blotting her brow with a cool cloth, and he smiles at her so sweetly she's no longer sure whether she's alive or dead. "Reed," she croaks. "I live?" He nods. She has the strangest urge to cry.

She knows it is selfish of her, and she has had her time to be selfish, but she can't help wishing she had died. The fever had taken her strength, her sanity, why not her life? "How?"

Howland strokes a hair back from her eyes, "You were far off. Then the maester arrived. Just in time."

She feels a dampness on her cheeks, and she knows she's crying unbidden. "Jon?" She doesn't see her babe.

"He's with Ned. We make way for Starfall as soon as you're able." For a moment she's confused, and then she remembers Arthur. Dead. Arthur is dead. Surely they are returning him to his home, to his sister, to Ashara. "I see." she mumbles.

Though he'd taken a shine to her at the beginning Arthur drifted from her when news of Elia's murder came on the wings of a raven. He blamed her, she knew. He loved Elia, that she also knew. He hadn't said so, not intentionally. She could just tell. And she supposed he had hoped that with Rhaegar taking her as his new wife, perhaps he could be Elia's paramour. She knew Dorne didn't discriminate against such a thing.

But such hopes were dashed as Aegon's head was against the walls of the Red Keep, and Arthur's heart went with her.

"Lya." she can't bring herself to look at Ned as he steps into the room.

She knows what this means. She is alive. They will go to Starfall, leave the Sword of the Morning and Arthur Dayne with Ashara, and continue on to King's Landing. Ned will take her boy, and she will wed Robert and become Queen. She will live the remainder of her life lying under the man who'd killed her love, birthing his spawn.

"Lya?"  
"Don't worry yourself Ned. I know what needs to be done." And she does. She really does.

* * *

At the gates of the Red Keep Robert awaits her atop a big brown war horse, a golden crown atop his black curls. He is regal at first, but when he spots her he smiles so big it threatens to split his face in two. She bitterly wishes it would.

When she brings her mare to a halt he is already at her side, his big hands encircling her waist, pulling her down from the saddle. For a moment he only stares down at her, what he's hoping to see she does not know, but evidently he sees it. "Lya." he says reverently.

She has to bite her tongue to keep from spitting at him. It is a name only her brothers can call her.

She flinches when he kisses her but fakes a smile, allowing him to believe what he wishes. Jon will be safe, and she will be Queen.

* * *

Barely a month later they are wed in the sight of the seven, and her Stark grey cloak is pulled from her shoulders and replaced with Baratheon gold. She wants to scream.

She recites her vows and at the end he kisses her, the beard on his face scratching at her cheek, leaving it red and raw. The crowd roars with happiness and he turns to smile at them, waving one hand overhead. She can't manage a smile of her own.

She knows they will not think her frigid, or ungracious; rather they will think her scarred and broken, the poor Stark girl whisked away from her bed by a dragon to be raped and beaten. Who could blame her for being unhappy?

It won't last though. Their sympathy will fade as time goes on. She has been rescued, she is the Queen, she will have to be healed at some time. For who wants a frightened little girl living in memories as their Queen?

That night, when the feast has ended and the bedding ceremony has left her stripped bare in her wedding chambers, and Robert is stalking towards her, she wonders if she shouldn't kill him. He has taken everything from her.

Rhaegar is dead, she has no choice but to leave her son in the hands of her brother, he condoned the murder of Elia and her children, only babes, why should he not die? As he moves atop her, grunting and groaning in his ecstasy, she thinks on it.

She could do it after he's fallen asleep; pull a pin from her hair and stab it into his throat, watch as he gurgles on his blood, eyes wide and confused. She could do it moons from now, when he's sated and his guard is down and he's reveling in the knowledge that he's gotten everything he's ever wanted; slip a poison into his wine and whisper the truth in his ear as he lays immobile, his body engulfed in slow moving pain.

She's not sure when exactly she will, but as he spills his seed inside her and calls her Lya again, she knows she will.

* * *

A few days later she is crowned Queen. The septon places the golden circlet on her head, and announces her as Lyanna of House Baratheon, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

Only the knowledge that she will soon avenge her dead and all who've died to place her back in the arms of a foolish drunkard who thinks himself in love with her keeps her calm.

She smiles prettily at the common folk, throwing flowers at her feet. She sees a rose and imagines it's blue, and picks it up. A thorn pricks her finger, and for a moment she sees blood and rubies swirling together.

When she looks up she meets the eyes of the crowd and smiles truly.

_Soon._

* * *

**not sure if continuing, thoughts?  
p.s. sorry to all my ****_the lost one _followers, a new installment is coming soon. Same for _No Light_. **


	2. Chapter 2

_**Third Person's Point of View**_

A year passes in the blink of an eye, and yet her husband still lives.

It tears at her and makes her rage boil over but she knows it is not the right time, there hasn't been a right time. Not yet.

Much has changed since the eve of her wedding, when she first decided to see her husband dead. She is no longer so foolish and naive as to think she can plot his demise without consequence. She sees now the viper's nest in which she lives, and the dangers that lurk in the shadows of every corridor in the Red Keep.

She has to tread carefully, as if stepping over broken glass. The spider's little birds are everywhere, listening to each word she speaks. She's surrounded herself with those she can trust. Her ladies, each one a girl from Winterfell she's grown beside. Rosilyn, Shira, and Enna her closest confidantes. Her servants as well have traveled from the North to be by her side, each one a man or woman who've grown in the shadow of Winterfell's castle.

The lords and ladies take her aloof behavior and deem her as one who looks down on them, an ice Queen who will not lower herself to mingle with those not from the land of snow she hails from. They don't know, they couldn't.

She does her duty, sitting beside Robert at council meetings and court gatherings, smiling sweetly and speaking softly. It is nothing like her, nothing like Lyanna Stark. But she supposes she is Lyanna Stark no longer. She has become something, someone else.

It's only when she misses her moon's blood that she finds a small part of herself again. She hasn't planned for the child, she doesn't want it. She finds her way to the maester's chambers, and he confirms her thoughts.

That night she sends Rosilyn to acquire moon tea, discreetly. It takes her lady a long while, and as she waits she lays anxiously atop her bed. Fingers slip down to her belly, and she feels the firmness of her skin, rounding. She cannot bring herself to hate his babe.

When her lady returns she tells her to dispose of the moon tea. The child will be hers, and hers alone. A Stark in all but name. And she is.

Her daughter is born early, a moon too early. She slips from between Lyanna's thighs with a scream to wake the dead, her black curls matted with blood, her stone grey eyes open wide. She is the twin to her first born.

Shira hands her a dagger and to the audacity of the midwife she cuts the cord herself. The child is named before Robert ever hears his lady wife has gone to the birthing chambers. Elena Baratheon.

* * *

The Princess's birth is afforded all the same celebrations and excitement as a Prince's would have been. She makes sure of that.

A tourney is held in her name as is a feast. For the first time since news of Rhaegar's death reached her up in the Tower of Joy, she feels something akin to peace.

She keeps Elena swaddled in silks of blue and grey, and holds her throughout the dinner. As it comes to a close she walks the perimeter, affording the crowds a glimpse of their princess.

Those who so recently scorned her for her behavior now coo over her babe, lavishing her with compliments on her daughter's already prominent beauty, and that of her own. She nods and smiles and does quite a wonderful job of keeping a near-genuine smile on her face.

She feels it's getting easier.

* * *

Elena sees her sixth name-day and she's given a sister to keep her company. Another Stark girl, though her eyes have a touch of blue in them. This one she calls Lyarra, after her own mother.

It's through her second daughter, that she sees an opportunity. She's been patiently awaiting the right moment to see Robert dead, to seek retribution for the slaughter of her husband and his kin. And with another daughter, and a noticeable lack of an heir, she sees a way to guarantee the safety of her children in the event of his death.

She waits until Lyarra's third name-day celebration. She has paid the servants to never leave the King's cup empty, and before the sun has set he reeks of wine and his face is flushed as red as the roses; he is more drunk than she has ever seen him.

He follows her to his bedchambers, wanting nothing more than to fuck her. But before she allows his advances, she frowns, drifting towards the writing desk. She has already had Enna bring her papers in for this moment.

"Darling," she murmurs, running a finger along the edge of the smooth wood. "I'm a bit worried."

He stumbles towards her, his heavy hands gripping her shoulders tight. "Of what?" he slurs.

"Lyarra is our second daughter. What if, what if I never give you a son? What if I can never give you a male heir?" she speaks pitifully, her chin wobbling as fat tears well in her eyes.

Her husband laughs his booming laugh and pats her cheek. "Oh Lya, that's ridiculous. You have given me two children already, who's to say a son will not follow?" It's almost sweet, the way he tries to comfort her and dismiss her falsified worries.

She shakes her head, shrugging away from his touch. "Perhaps it is only a woman's worry. But there are so many things that could go wrong. What if you die before I can give you a son? The realm will be left in chaos."

He laughs again, at her. "That is absurd. I am in the prime of my life, why would I die? Your worries are unfounded my sweet."

"But they are not! I sit on the same council as you, I know as well as you of the Greyjoy rebellions. If Balon rises against you, you will go to war against him. Please my love," her teeth are grinding as she leads him to the desk, sliding a decree beneath his fingers. "Ease my conscience."

"What is this?"

"It states that should you die without a male heir, our daughter will be Queen. Perhaps we will never have need of such a thing, but I would wish to have my worries cleared from my head." she touches his hand, threading her fingers through his, looking up at him through her lashes. "Then I may have room for more pleasurable thoughts."

He barks a laugh, raking his fingers through his hair. "Damn you woman. Fine. It will never come to pass, so what does it matter."

He plucks a quill from the tabletop and signs his name with a flourish, the ink barely dotted before he's thrown himself at her.

His hands grasp at her dress and tear it from her shoulders. And for once, she manages to reciprocate. She holds no love her husband, but this is not about love. She is one step closer to revenge, and the thought sends a shot of carnal want through her.

She helps him to remove his tunic, hands running across the expansive plain of his chest. If she closes her eyes she can pretend he is slimmer, more fit to her body, another man. So she does.

They fall onto the bed and she throws her legs across his thighs, gathering her skirts around her waist, taking him in with one thrust. He groans and she rakes her nails across his chest, taking control, ignoring his babbling of sons and heirs and all that he'll give her with his seed.

She just wants this one night, to take what she wants and forget who she's with.

"Lya, Lya, Lya," he chants, his fingers leaving bruises across her hips as he jerks up and squeezes tighter. She hisses, blood welling beneath her fingernails.

Her eyes squeeze shut tight and she moves up and back until she feels it, that building in her belly. It coils tighter and tighter until she moves just so and finally, it's there.

Her release rushes through her and she slows, allowing him to roll atop her in one swift motion. He hitches her leg up and keeps moving, grunting and groaning and going on and on. But she barely notices. She's taken what she wanted.

"This will be your son." he utters, just as he spills inside her. She lays still as he rolls aside, falling into slumber nearly instantly.

In silence she stands and leaves the bed, slipping from the ripped dress and leaving it pooled at her feet. She takes a dressing robe from a hook by the door and pulls it on, tying the sash tightly across her waist as she leaves his chambers.

That night she dreams, ghoulish nightmares of Aegon's death. Only it's her child who's brains spatter against the walls, and it's she crying out in anguish as the mountain rapes her again and again.

* * *

Eleven years manage to pass before she gives Robert yet another daughter. Her last. The birth is hard and laborious and she bleeds so heavily the midwives whisper she will not survive. Rosilyn appears at her side, squeezing her hand so tightly blood wells beneath her nails.

"You must be strong Lyanna." She cannot remember the last time someone said her name. "For Elena, for Lyarra. They need you."

Her lady looks down at her, pressing a cool cloth to her forehead. She nods, and her lady helps her to lean forward.

She screams and sobs and it's as if she's in the Tower of Joy again, with only a young inexperienced maid helping her through her arduous labor. "Once more Your Grace, once more!" the midwife urges.

She bears down, strangled screams cutting through the air like knives. She feels relief as the babe slips from her and into the midwife's hands, silent as a lamb.

"Is she alright?" she asks, watching with drawn brows as the women hurry about with her child, refusing to look at her. Maids strip the blood soaked sheets from beneath her. "What's wrong?" she asks again.

Rosilyn squeezes her hand as Shira comes forward, holding the child. "She is healthy. But she will not make a sound. She is quiet is all, it gave the midwives a worry." She helps her to take the girl into her arms.

The babe is small and her hair is light, browner than black. Her grey eyes are open and she peers up at her mother with something akin to curiosity. She offers her a finger and the child squeezes tight, cooing soft as a whisper.

Lyanna laughs, "She is strong. She is my Visenya."

* * *

It is only months after Visenya's birth, when Elena is five and ten, that it is time for Robert to fall. Her daughter has become all that she hoped for, kind and gentle-hearted with the ability to rule engraved in her bones. The common people love their Princess, and should she ascend as Queen she is confident the Seven Kingdoms will accept her.

She has Rosilyn inquire in secret after specific poisons meant to go unnoticed, perhaps Tears of Lys, though she knows it is difficult to come by. She does not want suspicion to follow her husband's death.

When Rosilyn returns after making her inquiries, she seems panicked, pulling her hooded cloak from her shoulders hurriedly.

"Is something the matter?" she murmurs, wiping milk from Visenya's cheeks as she finishes her feeding.

"Jon Arryn has followed me."

Lyanna turns, carefully passing her daughter to Enna. "What? Are you sure?"

"I am positive. I was discreet, as you told me. I was cloaked all the while, yet when I left the seller's hut he was across the way. Watching me." Rosilyn babbles in terror, hands shaking, tears coming into her eyes.

Lyanna smooths her hands across her cheeks, shushing her quietly. "It's alright. Everything will be fine. I promise. Don't worry yourself so."

"But what will happen? He knows I am your lady, he will inquire after the seller's possessions and know what I was buying for you. He is observant, terribly so. He sees your displeasure with the King, it is no secret to him!"

"I will take care of it."

"How?"

Lyanna smiles, grasping her loyal ladies hands in her own. "Do you trust me?"

Rosilyn smiles, though it is weak. "Of course."

"Then do not trouble yourself. I will take care of it."

* * *

Not a week later Jon Arryn lies abed with fever so strong, it is certain his life has come to an end. Maester Pycelle works tirelessly to relieve him of his symptoms, but the most he can do is administer milk of the poppy to ease his pain.

As his time comes to a close, the Queen pays him a final visit.

His room reeks of death and it is hard to resist the urge to cover her nose with her hand, but she does not, and seeks a seat beside his bed.

Seeing him so ill at her hand sends a wave of sorrow through her; she feels a certain amount of guilt for having done this to him, knowing how strongly Ned cares for him. But she cannot risk allowing him to live. She knows this, and is resolute in her decision.

He lolls his head to the side to look into her eyes. "Why?" he mumbles. He seems to know this is her doing, the accusation is in his tired gaze.

She sighs, taking the cloth from his head and refreshing it for him, dabbing it gingerly across his brow. "I could not have you endangering my plans." she says softly.

He coughs, blood dotting his lips. "And what are, your plans?" he wheezes.

She is quiet for a moment, contemplating his motives. But she supposes he is dying already, what is the harm in letting the old man know what he is dying for?

"I loved Rhaegar. I went with him of my own volition. I never wished to marry Robert." There is surprise in Jon's eyes, and she laughs softly. "Why is it no one could believe that I am capable of making choices for myself? A woman knows her own heart."

He coughs again, and before she can say more there is a knock at the door. "Just a moment!" she calls.

She leans forward, whispering softly. "I do hope you know I never wished this for you. But I could not have you spoiling what I have waited so long for."

He gasps up at her, his cough overwhelming him. She stands, sweeping from the room without affording him another glance. Maester Pycelle waits patiently in the hall.

"He is gone. Let his body rest for a while. Come, let us tell the King together." she says, painting her face solemn.

The maester nods, taking her arm.

* * *

Jon Arryn's untimely death forces her to push her plans back once again, and her impatience churns within her like a storm. Then he tells her who he seeks to make the new Hand of the King, and her impatience is all but forgotten.

She had foolishly assumed he would have gifted the position to Tywin Lannister, who so patiently has waited for a fitting reward for his assistance in the Rebellion. All he has been given is a tentative betrothal between his youngest grandson and Lyarra, a match he did not desire in the first place. He had hoped to see his oldest grandson wed to Elena, a King consort if a son failed to come along. However she managed to convince Robert to wait in his decision, with some well placed words and hands.

This night she sits beside him as they sup, Elena and Lyarra chatting quietly among themselves. Visenya sleeps in the nursery.

"We leave for Winterfell in three days time. I will make Ned my new hand." There is silence for a moment before the girls begin speaking again, whispering excitedly.

When she last saw her son, he was but an infant. Too young to remember her face, too young to know he was loved by his mother. He will be in Winterfell, nearly a grown man. She will see him again.

She smiles softly. Perhaps revenge can wait a little longer.


End file.
